


The Daggers in Her Smile

by attackamazon



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Assassination, Bondage, Domination, Espionage, Evil Inquisitor, F/F, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Good versus Evil, Hurt/Comfort, Intrigue, Lies, Love, Machiavellianism, Manipulation, Masochism, Moral Dilemmas, Politics, Redemption, Religion, Secrets, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 20:10:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13348629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attackamazon/pseuds/attackamazon
Summary: “It must be considered that there is nothing more difficult to carry out, nor more doubtful of success, nor more dangerous to handle, than to initiate a new order of things.” - Niccolo Machiavelli.Evelyn Trevelyan has been steeped in intrigue and family secrets for as long as she could remember.  Groomed for the ruthlessness of the Grand Game by her Orlesian mother, she had always had her sights set on something better than her life in Ostwick and the holy orders her father envisioned for her.  When what was supposed to be a simple working pilgrimage drops her right into the thick of the worst crisis Thedas has ever faced - the literal end of the world - her wish is granted.  The power to reshape the face of world is within her grasp.Not everyone is happy with her methods, however, and there is a dark secret hidden in her past that could be either her downfall or her deliverance.Sometimes it takes a monster to defeat a monster.





	The Daggers in Her Smile

**Author's Note:**

> ****WARNING: This chapter contains a graphic description of self-harm.****
> 
> Just as a warning up front, some very dark and uncomfortable topics will be addressed in this story. I'll provide warnings for obvious triggers as best I can. Read safely.

_ Everyone sees what you appear to be.  Few experience what you really are. ~ Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince _

 

Timing was everything in the Game.  

From the warm comfort of the enormous bed, with the still snoring mound of its owner beside her, Evelyn Trevelyan silently watched the dawn light seep in through the half-shuttered window and creep across the thick Antivan rug.  She had noted the slow progress of the sunbeam on her first visit to the Comte’s chamber and knew with reasonable precision how long it took the light to pass each small rosette in the rug’s elaborate pattern, adjusting for the season.  It would be half an hour or so now until the valet came to wake his master.  Plenty of time for what she had in mind.

She had been awake for a couple of hours already, of course, and had carefully slipped out of the silk sheets and seen to her toilette - wiping away the musk of sex with subtle rosewater and brushing out her thick black hair until there was no trace that she had slept at all.  The Comte’s heavy sleep after a late night of dancing and passion also afforded her the opportunity to quickly peruse the documents on his desk in the adjoining study.  

It was an interesting haul: a querulous letter from a younger brother requesting further funds to shore up an ailing business arrangement; a tally of monthly expenses for the Comtesse’ entertaining, complete with a few names of the guests; an unfinished letter to the Teyrn advising against a certain trade deal in light of the southern hostilities; and, carefully tucked into the small hidden cubby that the dear, thick Comte didn’t yet realize both she and his wife knew about, a flowery and dramatic love letter from a certain Lady Sedley, a newly-fledged daughter of another prominent noble house in the city.   
  
Her timing, as usual, was perfect.

Evelyn smiled to herself as she reclined on the silken pillow, waiting.  The poor girl was besotted and too inexperienced to realize that Phillippe was merely toying with her.  Her reputation would suffer if it was ever found out and if the Comtesse had already sniffed out the hidden letter then ruination was imminent.  Her Ladyship was happy enough to have her husband’s appetites satisfied by others, but appearances had to be maintained.  Anyone silly enough to write such a childish thing was a threat to the family reputation and so could not be tolerated.

The correct moment had come.  Rolling over, she sighed contentedly and nuzzled against her bedfellow.  The Comte stirred, yawning, and then chuckled as he felt her arms wrap around him and toy with his wiry chest hair.

“Still here, my blackbird?” he grunted fondly, basking in the attention. “I would have thought you already flown.”

“And miss the opportunity to kiss you awake, my dearest?” she teased, smoothly insinuating herself closer and underlining the fact that she was still bare-skinned under all that silk.

The Comte turned to face her then, rolling his bulk with some effort.  He was not a fat man, but all those evenings of roast game and brandy by the fire were catching up with him in his middle years and she had encouraged him into more sporting at the ball than usual in order to ensure a sound sleep.  His hands roamed her body, but possessively rather than amorously as Evelyn kissed him and grinned sweetly.

“Perhaps my lord requires something more substantial to awaken him after last night?”

She knew the answer to the arch question before it was given.  She had asked only to stroke his vanity, to imply that she thought him more desirable and youthful and capable of rising again than reality indicated.  

It worked every time.

“Alas, I have business with my steward this morning,” the Comte demurred but with a haughty, satisfied smile.

He watched, propping himself up on his elbow, as Evelyn rose from the bed and cast a naughty glance back over her shoulder while walking naked to where her clothes were bunched on a settee nearby.  The blue brocade had been the perfect gown choice for the ball, playing to the Comte’s hereditary sympathies and aspirations as well as sending a subtle signal about her own heritage, but it would draw too much attention on the street at this hour of the morning.  She slipped out the small laundry bundle of fresh clothes that she had paid a maid to secret into the chamber the evening before and began to dress, making a little show of it for the Comte’s benefit.

“And you will be off to the morning Chantry service,” he continued, teasing her in return now as he leered wolfishly from the bed. “How sweetly you sin, my blackbird, to sing the Chant with adulterous kisses on your lips.”

He loved that thought, Evelyn knew.  She had played the pious maiden convincingly in the beginning, slowly succumbing to the corruption of her wicked Comte.  Phillippe was as wicked as lukewarm tea in reality, but he reveled in the illusion of power and danger that she gave him.  Any pretty chambermaid would do for the satisfaction of venial desires, but to have a highborn daughter of a notably pious family in his thrall and in his bed - that was an uncommon delight.  It was that illusion and that need, precisely, that ensured he would never suspect his innocent little blackbird of any kind of treachery.

“My Comte teases me unmercifully,” she pouted with practiced injured innocence as she finished lacing her surcoat. “Blessed Andraste was a woman who shared her husband with a concubine.  Our Lady will understand and ask the Maker to overlook it.”

On cue, like a fish trapped on the most subtle of hooks, the Comte rose from the bed and paced towards her.  He could not tip her mouth up to his forcefully for she was slightly taller than him, but she allowed herself to be firmly kissed and caressed lasciviously.

“Come to the garden after your prayers tomorrow,” he murmured into her ear, “and I will be merciful indeed.”

She left him there wanting and slipped down the back stairs, ducking through a side door into the washyard where a servant was waiting in the alley.  The girl was wrapped in the standard grey dress and kerchief of her station, but her dark eyes widened with recognition as Evelyn stepped through the gate.

“Messere,” the girl greeted her softly and Evelyn plucked a roll of paper from the laundry bundle, now filled with her evening attire, before passing the bundle to the servant.

“Well done.  Take this to the usual place.  You’ll find your payment there.” Evelyn produced a concerned smiled before  continuing, “Your mother is well?”

The girl brightened. “Oh, yes, messere. The landlord don’t bother her anymore and she can rest easy.”

“I’m glad to hear it.  Do let me know if I can be of further assistance.  One must take care of one’s friends, yes?”

With a calculated gentility, Evelyn took her leave and stepped out onto the quiet street of upper-crust townhouses and made her way through a careful, circuitous route to the Chantry, slowing and blending in with the crowd of other worshipers as she approached.

Her parents along with her eldest brother Tomas and his wife were arriving just as Evelyn was mounting the stairs.  She caught her father’s eye cheerfully and fell in with the family party.

“And now where have you been, young lady?” the Bann Trevelyan asked, raising a craggy eyebrow in mild reproach. “Out all night?”

Her father was getting no younger.  He had always been a rather sedate man, careful and steady and concerned with propriety, but he had grown even more so in recent years.  And tired, Evelyn thought, sympathetically.  There was more silver than golden blond in his meticulously groomed hair and the gold chains of rank hung heavier about his shoulders than they had when she was a child.  However, the patriarch of House Trevelyan was still very much involved with the daily affairs of the house and Evelyn had not expected her absence at breakfast to escape his notice.

“Papa, you jest,” she replied charmingly and with delicate humor. “You know very well that I made arrangements to stay over at Lady Parnell’s after the ball last night.  I wouldn’t think of being out on the street in the dark and you know I haven’t had a chance to visit her daughter since the wedding.”

“Or her foolish rake of a brother, I’ll wager,” her father grunted, but fondly and with his curiosity satisfied. 

He hadn’t truly suspected her, Evelyn knew, though she was relieved all the same.  Her father had enough to worry about with her siblings.  The best service that she could do for Bann Trevelyan was to ensure that his image of her as a virtuous and dutiful youngest daughter never slipped.

“Augustin,” her mother chided, breaking in impatiently with her rich Orlesian accent.  “Don’t spoil the girl’s fun.  Our Evelyn knows what is expected of her.”  The indulgent smile that Lady Trevelyan shot at her was conspiratorial. “I’m pleased that you had a good time, my dear.  Come along now or we’ll be late.”

The service dragged on and Evelyn used the time to mentally construct the rest of her day.  Tomas would be attending a meeting in the afternoon with the trade authority.  She needed to slip the blotting paper copy of Phillippe’s letter to his valet as soon as possible after the service so that her brother could be properly advised on emerging policy.  The Comte was often called to consult with the Teyrn on financial affairs.  Better that Tomas have the advantage on a possible upset in the trade networks before his meeting.  

The information about the Comte’s brother’s finances would need to be funneled to her sister, who was now the Arlessa Gascoyne.  Alyse would need to warn her husband about the stability of his investments.  Despite their high title, the previous Arl had made some costly decisions that had put the family on delicate ground.  Alyse’s lady-in-waiting would see to it that a suggestion was planted in such a way that Alyse would investigate thoroughly and think of it as her own idea.

The list of the Comtesse’ expenses - now, there was an intriguing prize.  The combination of names and dates would prove useful in teasing out the other bits and pieces of social gossip that Evelyn had picked up at the ball, but most interestingly it provided a window into a possible adversary’s plans.  The Comtesse was clearly setting up something, flattering some guests and dominating others.  Evelyn made a mental note to go over the particulars with her mother later.  Lady Trevelyan’s acumen for intrigue had been forged in the cut-throat Orlesian Grand Game and the Comtesse was also an alumna of that treacherous school. Her mother would no doubt be able to provide some insight.

Before that, however, there was the question of the love letter.  Phillippe’s affections were well in hand for as long as she wanted them, Evelyn knew.  There was no reason to trouble herself about a potential rival as stupid as this Lady Sedley.  The question was whether she should merely dispose of the letter or deliver it by “accident” into the hands of the Comtesse and let the other woman destroy the hapless debutant before her social life ever fully bloomed.

She went through the motions of piety as she considered, repeating the familiar responses to the Chant -  _ Maker have mercy! Andraste guide us!.   _ In the end, she decided that there were essentially three possible gains.   
  
First, revealing the scandal would halt House Sedley’s rise in its tracks.  Their roots in the city were only two generations deep, though they carried military influence with the Teyrn, and there was nothing so distasteful to old nobility as new nobility.  Lady Sedley’s chances of making a marriage up the social ladder would be ruined and her family would be soundly embarrassed - an investment in eliminating a possible future rival of House Trevelyan and its allies.

Second, with the right intimidation, Lady Sedley herself could likely be blackmailed into Evelyn’s service as an informant.  A pretty fool could be useful if properly cultivated.  If nothing else, Evelyn could steer the girl into a worse scandal that would not implicate the Comte.

The third possibility, however, was the most interesting.  The Comtesse was a woman built for grander environments.  She was bored in the monotonous Free Marches and Ostwick was too small of an arena for her to properly stretch her claws.  Instead, she took what perverse entertainment she could in the slow and vicious destruction of her enemies.  Evelyn had viewed her handiwork many times.  Why not deliver Lady Sedley’s indiscretions right into the Comtesse’ hands directly as a gesture of alliance?  The Comtesse would have her toy to rip apart and an informant in her husband’s bedchamber besides.  Evelyn would have secured for herself and House Trevelyan the good opinion of a powerful woman with connections in both Ostwick and Orlais.  As for the Comte - well, the cooperation of a clever wife and a clever mistress could do wonders for a man’s career and dear Phillippe could remain happily oblivious as was his preference.

Evelyn smiled to herself, pleased with her plans, as the service ended and she dutifully followed her parents out of the vaulted Chantry with its full complement of bells and smells.  She only vaguely attended to her mother’s critique of the homily in the background. 

A busy afternoon awaited her.  She could slip her information to Tomas’ valet while helping his wife select a flattering afternoon dress that would discreetly hide the bump of a new Trevelyan scion for a few more months yet.  An invitation to afternoon tea with the Comtesse later in the week would not be difficult to wrangle.

She reminded herself, too, to make time for her daily practice with the sword instructor before dinner.  House Trevelyan did not have so many skilled duelists that she could afford to sharpen her wits at the expense of her blades.  One could not play the Game well without spilling a little blood in the process.

Later that evening, as the family settled in around the carved oak dining table for the formal meal of the day, Bann Trevelyan leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat.  The benediction had already been bestowed on the food and so the interruption was unexpected.

“My dear daughter,” he began, by which Evelyn knew that something serious was afoot.  She lay her utensils down and composed herself with innocent interest to listen, resisting the urge to glance at her mother for information.  “As your twenty-second birthday approaches, I believe that it’s time we began to consider your future calling.”

“Augustin, really, you know how discussing business at dinner upsets my digestion,” her mother sighed plaintively, but even a short glimpse of Lady Trevelyan’s face was enough for Evelyn to make out the calculations flying behind her mother’s eyes.  

This topic was clearly unexpected.  Lady Trevelyan wanted to delay until she could feel her husband’s intentions out in more detail.  Tomas only raised his eyebrows in a sort of facial shrug.  Her father had been deliberating whatever came next in secret and that was never without purpose in this family.  Evelyn maintained a smile, realizing from the determination in her father’s voice and his refusal to look at his wife that it was impossible to demure or postpone at this time.  

“Of course, Papa.”

Her father visibly relaxed under the obedient sincerity of her tone.  He gestured first to her brother and then to her.

“I have been blessed with many children.  My heir, of course.  Two daughters married into titles.  Two sons well situated in the government and trade houses, destined for titles of their own one day.  All that remains is to see my youngest daughter well-situated while I can.”

“I have been mindful of the wisdom of my predecessors lately,” Bann Trevelyan ventured on reasonably after allowing a short moment for the topic to sink in to his captive audience. “Long tradition dictates that the first child is the heir, the second serves the city, and the third serves the Chantry.  As your sisters made early advantageous marriages and your brothers have both found positions in government, I still owe a child to the Chantry.  And we Trevelyans have always diligently supported the Andrastian faith.”

He smiled benevolently as if to soften the approaching point of his lecture and Evelyn felt her heart drop into her stomach as she realized what her father was getting at.

“Perhaps it’s time to consider a life in holy orders, pet.  With your cleverness and devotion, I believe you have the makings of a fine Sister. Perhaps one day even a Grand Cleric.  You would hardly be the first Grand Cleric of Ostwick to descend from our family line.  Or, perhaps a Templar.  With your enthusiasm for the sword, I’m certain that your uncle Piers would happily recommend you to the Order.  In either case,it bears careful thought.  The Chantry is a respectable profession for a young woman.”

Silence descended over the table.  Her mother’s fashionably pale complection was growing faintly pink and splotched with outrage.  Her brother’s shy wife blushed and delicately dabbed her lips with her napkin.  Tomas tried and failed miserably to stifle a chuckle.

Evelyn fashioned a suitable expression of surprise, although the more she considered the less surprising the declaration was, really.  Her father had tried very hard to sell her second sister and third brother on service to the Chantry and Evelyn knew that she was fast approaching the prime age to either be married or settled into some useful service.  Still, a  _ Chantry Sister? _  Become one of those humorless, chanting, sexless, holy bureaucrats? The prospect was too grotesque to contemplate.

“Husband, you will put the poor girl off of the idea entirely with such an approach,” Lady Trevelyan remonstrated at last, setting her rouged lips into a cooly amused quirk. “Anyone hearing you would believe you think our youngest daughter too plain and dull to marry like her sisters.”

Tomas could not contain himself any longer and let out a guffaw that was politely ignored by everyone else at the table.

“Of course not,” the Bann retorted quickly, frowning.  “You have given me nothing but beauties, my love, and Evelyn has always been the rose in our bed of lillies.  But, Matilde, our youngest daughter has more than mere beauty.  She has a first rate mind and I only want to see her make the most of her gifts and uphold the family obligations in the bargain.”

“I, for one, think you would make an excellent Sister, Evie,” Tomas added patronizingly, grinning at her across the table as he tried to collect himself.  “You would certainly liven things up for the Grand Cleric and I wager your sermons would be more entertaining.”

Evelyn made a mental note to allow his next affair to come a little too close to his wife’s suspicions for comfort.  

She glanced at her mother, who was toying thoughtfully with a wine glass before emitting a dramatic noise of disgust befitting a long-suffering matriarch.

“Tomas, that is quite enough, if you please.  My appetite is entirely spoiled now.  Please, husband, let us move on to something less . . . practical.”

“Of course, my love,” her father continued apologetically before turning his gaze back to Evelyn. “But first, one more point: in a month’s time, our Aunt Lettice will be traveling to the Divine’s Conclave in the aling Grand Cleric’s stead.  It’s only fitting that she have a family escort in addition to her Chantry staff and I would like it to be Evelyn.  I think it will be instructive for her to see first hand what a life in service to the Maker entails and it will afford her the opportunity to see a little of the world at the same time.  No better way to divine the will of the Maker than to seek Him out on the road.”

Evelyn watched as her father smiled encouragingly, clearly expecting her to be pleased, even as the color drained from her mother’s face.

“What do you say, pet?” he prompted.

_ I would rather marry the oldest, sourest, ugliest Arl you could find then spend my life chanting prayers to some invisible, disapproving, neglectful phantom-god,  _  she thought.  

However, it would not do to reject the proposition out of hand.  The opportunity to attend the Conclave could be a valuable one and it would not hurt to give her father the illusion that his suggestion was being seriously entertained.  Perhaps she could please herself at the same time and turn the suggestion into a program of dedicated lay service that would allow her to expand her surveillance without the trouble of marriage and with the smokescreen of piety to protect her.

“I’ve always wanted to travel.  Let me think about it, Papa,” she replied diplomatically.

The meal finished awkwardly.  Tomas and her father filled the silence with discussion of the upcoming Grand Tourney. Lady Trevelyan rose from the table early complaining of a headache and bid Evelyn to attend her in her rooms.  As soon as the chamber door was closed behind them, the headache dropped from the matriarch of House Trevelyan like an afterthought.

“I do believe that your father enjoys inventing new ways to vex me,” Lady Trevelyan sighed, settling down before the mirror of her dressing table and beginning to remove the silver pins from her hair. “A Chantry Sister, indeed.”

“It’s hardly unexpected,  _ maman _ ,” Evelyn replied, slipping easily into the same fluid Orlesian style of speech that was her mother’s preference.

This was a token of their bond.  To her siblings, their mother’s persistently Imperial style was received as a quaint family joke despite Lady Trevelyan’s best efforts.  Only Evelyn had ever recognized it for the opportunity that it was.  She smiled at her mother’s sharp glance in the mirror.

“Papa has been trying to talk one of us into joining the Chantry for years now.  I suppose that he was bound to get around to me eventually.”

Her mother snorted, annoyed at the thought.

“I love your father dearly, my darling, but he simply has no sense of scope or potential.  It seems to be the Trevelyan failing.  They’re all like that, the whole family.  All honor and ambition and not a speck of common sense among them.”

“I’m a Trevelyan, too,  _ maman _ ,” Evelyn reminded, amused, as she moved to help her mother remove a particularly stubborn pin.

Lady Trevelyan caught her hand gently and looked up at her.  Her mother’s smiles were always enigmatic, always multifaceted and impenetrable.  Evelyn felt again the slight unease that she had always felt when looking into her mother’s calculating blue eyes and red-lipped smile.  Lady Matilde de Montfault had left the Empire behind to become Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick, but she had never truly abandoned her masks.

“Not at all, my sweet.  Your father may have turned your brothers and sisters into dull, dreary Trevelyans, but you, my dear girl, are  _ my _ daughter.”

She reached up and patted Evelyn’s cheek gently before turning her chin until Evelyn was looking at her own reflection in the silver mirror.  Indeed, she did possess her mother’s oval face, shapely oxbow lips, and curtain of glossy midnight hair.  Her sisters were pretty women in their own ways, but they had bred more true to their Trevelyan heritage with the family’s sharp chins and dark eyes .  Evelyn’s eyes, as grey as polished steel, were her own - evidently drawn from an ancestor further back than her parents.  There was so little of Bann Trevelyan in her looks that her mother’s witty jab might as well have been correct.

“And we will not waste this face on the Chantry, hmm?”

Evelyn stepped back, pacing the plush carpet of the comfortable chamber thoughtfully, watching as her mother finished taking down graying locks of dark hair and began to brush them out.

“Papa seems quite determined this time.  I doubt that he will be dissuaded easily,” she remarked at last.

“Then we shall not attempt to dissuade him,” Lady Trevelyan replied airily. “Besides, he is quite right about your great aunt needing a family escort.  Lettice can’t decide on breakfast in the morning without praying about it for three hours.  You shall keep her focused and sway her in a beneficial direction.”

“I have work to do here. And I will lose the Comte if I am away for so long.”

The older woman laughed, a girlish sound despite her mother’s age.

“Have you grown attached to him?  Do remember your lessons, my sweet,” Lady Trevelyan teased.  She glanced at Evelyn in the mirror, smiling, and then shook her head. “No, I understand your plans.  I shall take care of your Comte and the Comtesse, never fear.  Though your father is short-sighted, he is right in one thing: it is indeed high time we placed you to rise in the world.”

Her mother stood, inspecting her reflection in the mirror once more before turning and eyeing Evelyn appraiseingly.

“Tell me, have you taken care of the small matter that we discussed before the ball?”

Evelyn did not allow her expression to change, though she felt her chest constrict very slightly at the unpleasant memory.  

Her siblings, although publicly as pious and straightforward as family reputation required, were no less prone to indulgence and corruption than any other privileged nobility.  Usually, their mistakes could be easily smoothed over with some well-placed coin, blackmail, or careful suggestion.  It was not always so, and it had increasingly become Evelyn’s task - under her mother’s tutelage, of course - to ensure that all of the loose ends were carefully wrapped up so that the Trevelyan name could continue unsullied by youthful indiscretion.  

“Of course,” she replied, forming her face into the coolly serene countenance that she knew her mother expected of her.

It was unfortunate that her sister had chosen to have an affair.  It was unfortunate, but not surprising, that the jilted lover had threaten to expose the relationship and the resulting illegitimate pregnancy.  It was unfortunate that the man had subsequently found himself the recipient of a cup of drugged wine at a ball, necessitating that he be taken upstairs to sleep off his inebriation.  It was unfortunate that he had roused and stumbled out of the guest room, finding his way up to the rooftop where he had drowned himself in the cistern in a fit of drunken despair.  Evelyn had carefully placed the poorly scribbled suicide note herself.  When his body was finally found, it would be the talk of all the upper-class salons in town and then it would be just as quickly forgotten in favor of the next scandal.

Timing was everything in the Game.  And there was no profit or pleasure in regretting the destruction of an unskilled adversary.

Her mother smiled, seeming to relax.  She approached, reaching out to stroke a few loose stands of jet black hair from Evelyn’s cheek in a fussy, maternal fashion.

“I believe a season in Val Royeaux will be just the thing for you, my dear,” Lady Trevelyan stated shrewdly. “Your father wants you to travel and contemplate the religious life.  So, you shall do so within sight of the Grand Cathedral itself.  Once the Conclave is over, you shall stay with my brother’s family for the winter court.  Marquis de Montfault would be happy to present you, I’m sure.  I won’t have my most suitable daughter limited to these petty Marcher lords when she would grace the arm of an Emperor himself.”

“You’ve been out of circulation too long,  _ maman _ .  Orlais has an Empress now,” Evelyn pointed out cheekily, although she was greatly eased by her mother’s simple solution to the Chantry issue.  It was a plan that her father could hardly argue with and the chance to visit Val Royeaux with all its power and intrigues was an opportunity that could not be missed.

Lady Trevelyan’s smile did not waver, but her perfectly shaped dark eyebrow lifted slightly.  A playful gesture, or a suggestive one.

“Yes, but who knows for how long?”  

She relented, passing this remark off as if it were flippant, though Evelyn was not so certain that it was. 

“Well, if you bring home a handsome young chevalier, I will be happy enough.  I’m too old now to travel up to Markham to see them for myself at the Grand Tourney.  Remember only that it is just as easy to love a man with wealth and title as it is to love a handsome face with little else.  And, in the end, my sweet, love has so little to do with it.  You will manage very well, I’m certain.”

When the day’s intrigues had been discussed and plans for the journey finalized, Evelyn excused herself back to her own room.  She had shared her chamber with her sisters when she was younger, but now, at last, the spacious room with its view over the concentric city walls out across the shimmering sea was hers alone.  The sun had already set as the world tilted towards autumn darkness and so the view from the casement was one of stars above and the city lights below.  A cheerful fire was already lit in the hearth.   
  
The weariness of the day settled onto her like a heavy cloak as she undressed and washed in the basin.  Late nights spent cozying up to the Comte or seeing to any number of other intrigues were catching up to her.  Long days of overseeing her network of informants while upholding the busy social obligations of a young noblewoman were taking their toll.  Hers was a vital role in maintaining the fortunes of House Trevelyan, even if it was a somewhat thankless one, and so she would never have complained.  Still, the weight of all that information, all of those decisions, and everything that rode on her success could not be suspended indefinitely.

Release had to come from somewhere.

Evelyn bent to pull a small wooden puzzle box from the hidden shelf inside the bed’s frame.  She had found the hidden place when she was just a child and used it as a safe place to hide her treasured possessions and secret journal away from both her sisters and the cleaning maids.  Now, the shelf held a different secret.  A few careful touches in just the right place and the puzzle box clicked open, revealing an unusual collection of objects within:  a large vial, nearly full of a crimson, slightly viscous liquid; a leather cord that was shiny and polished from use;  and knife with a curved blade like a dragon’s talon, wickedly sharp and winking in the firelight.

_ How sweetly you sin _ ,  _ my blackbird _ , Evelyn remembered the Comte saying as she touched each of the objects in turn.

Everyone had their sins.  That was why she never blamed her siblings for their failings.  No one was immune from the crawling horror of an indifferent world that had been abandoned even by its Creator.  Some sought respite in sex, some in wine or dwarf dust.  Some, like her father, found it in prayer.  Some needed more exotic methods.

She settled herself onto the side of the bed, pulled a bit of toweling into her lap, and drew the leather cording out first before setting it to one side.  There was a ritual to this practice.  Evelyn rarely needed the cord anymore, but it was a precaution and part of the repetition now.  Second, she removed the vial, judging the transparency and color of the liquid for a moment before settling it down beside the cording within easy reach.

At last, she drew forth the knife.  It was a pretty thing, neatly wrapped with leather at the handle and sporting a silver horse’s head at the pommel - a nod to the family crest that Evelyn always found amusing.  It had been a gift from an uncle to one of her brothers, but her brothers had more than enough of such trifles already and the knife had been set aside and “lost” years ago.  it had never been missed.  The shape was what made it useful to Evelyn, though, not its aesthetic qualities.  She tested the edge, found it to her satisfaction, and then considered her arm.

Her left forearm lay across the toweling on her lap, pale and pristine.  She clenched and unclenched her fist a few times, turned her hand palm up, and then selected a starting place.  The tip of the blade pricked at the soft skin just below the elbow and then bit deeper, sending a searing, lighting bolt charge of pain up her spine.  She watched the process with trance-like fascination, noting the precise way that the skin slowly split around the blade and the blood welled up from the steadily lengthening gash.  The pain sharpened like an orchestral crescendo until at last it dragged a shuddering, sobbing sigh of blessed relief from Evelyn’s throat, giving way to a wash of warm pleasure along with the blood-flow.

Every moment of her life was calculated, poised, divorced from feeling, constructed for effect. The walls that prisoned everything she could not afford to feel were so thick now that they were all but invulnerable.  She could no longer look at the slack face of a life that she had destroyed and feel sorrow and guilt.  She could no longer lay beneath a sweating, groping married Comte over twice her age and feel the revulsion of it all.  But, she could feel the bite of the knife on her outraged flesh and the hot flow of blood down her arm, and through those things she could bleed herself of the demons that followed her and be absolved.   
  
The tingle of nausea and vertigo snapped Evelyn back into full consciousness.  In her near-trance, she had left the last part of the ritual a little too long.  The wound still bled onto the now crimson toweling steadily and pressure did not fully stop it.  Quickly, with a whiteness closing in around her vision, she dropped the knife into her lap, grabbed the leather cording, looped it with a practiced hand around her upper arm, and then pulled it tight to form a temporary tourniquet.  She reached for the vial, uncorked it with her teeth, and then downed the healing potion contained within.

Within seconds, she felt the vertigo subside.  Before Evelyn’s eyes, the red screaming mouth of the wound closed, seaming itself together until the skin was perfectly smooth and unmarred.  There was no scar - no trace of the gash at all.  Loosening the tourniquet, she raised her arm and turned it, verifying that all of the internal structures had healed in the correct way.  The knife had to be razor sharp and the wound had to be quickly healed with the potion for it to leave no trace.  So far, she had managed it every time.

Though this time, she had come uncomfortably close.

Quietly, spent and languorous with the aftereffects of the blood loss, Evelyn returned the objects of her addiction back to their box and replaced it in its hiding place.  She carefully folded the bloody toweling to ensure that it stained nothing else and then tossed it into the fire where it would be consumed without a trace.

One day, she knew, she would make a mistake.  One day, she would carve the wound too deep or let the blood flow too long.  Every session increased by a tiny increment the threshold of pain needed to bring her back to peace again.

One day, Evelyn knew, she would no longer be able to feel this either and then only the last drop of blood in her body would be enough to bring satisfaction.

That was for the future, though.  Eschewing the frilly nightgowns in her chest of drawers, she crawled naked under the soft covers of her bed, turning her thoughts buoyantly away from the darkness that stalked her and back to her upcoming journey.  She would play the dutiful and pious Chantry servant long enough to see Val Royeaux and test her mettle against the Grand Game properly.  If she was good enough - if she could survive the vicious politics of the Orlesian court and flourish there - then there was nothing that could stop her.  For her family, she could build the ladder that would carry House Trevelyan up to greater heights than a mere Bannship in one of the more lackluster Marcher cities.  For herself?  Information and power, and someday an escape from both.

Until then, she must make use of every available tool.  Even old Great Aunt Lettice and the boring diplomacy of the Conclave might yield something useful.  Who could say?

 

 

 


End file.
